


No Happy Ending

by Ryukin



Category: Heroes (TV)
Genre: M/M, Post-Canon, Unhappy Ending, Unrequited Lust
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-08-16
Updated: 2018-08-16
Packaged: 2019-06-28 04:27:49
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 9,969
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15700149
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Ryukin/pseuds/Ryukin
Summary: The new world order throws the balance off for everyone, and Sylar finds himself at Mohinder's door asking for help.Mohinder can't put aside his hate.Sylar can't ignore his lust.There is no happy ending, not for the two of them. That possibility was gone before they even met.





	No Happy Ending

Mohinder flicked off the television, sick of seeing Bennett’s kid jump to her death and snap back together, on repeat on every channel for the last week. Talk shows aired the footage between interviews both pro and con evolved human, news channels blasted the segment as a segue between stories on evo rights marches and the first, second, third murders committed across the nation against the same evos seeking basic human protections. 

 

He couldn't stomach more after seeing a promo for a segment on the first murder committed  _ by _ an evo after they had been outed. 

 

The silence on his apartment rang heavy in his ears as he brewed tea with shaking hands. 

 

He heard a knock at the door and slammed his mug on the counter in surprise. It was probably just a neighbor. He hadn't been out in the hall in a couple days, the nosy old lady across the way was probably worried. 

 

He didn't want to talk to her. He didn't want to talk to anyone. 

 

He spun the mug between his hands and ignored another knock. At the third one, he signed and checked the peephole - the hallway was empty, but he opened it to be sure. 

 

Pacing up and down the hallway, turning heel to stop next to the pile of New York Times stacked haphazardly next to his door, stood the last person Mohinder ever wanted to see again. 

 

A small, shy smile crossed Sylar's face as he greeted him by name. 

 

***

 

Horse from a mostly one-sided fighting match through the hall door, Mohinder sat in silent resignation at his cluttered kitchen table. Sylar swiped his hand over his face, irritated, standing across from Mohinder. 

 

“Look, I'm sorry,” he said again, but Mohinder waved for him to shut up. Mohinder knocked his head on the table as he was ignored. “This isn't how … not how I wanted to come back here. Mohinder. There's nowhere else I can go.” His voice was weak, trying to pry emotion from Mohinder. 

 

He shifted on his feet, waiting. For anything. 

 

The sigh Mohinder heaved sounded more like a growl as it vibrated on the table. “I can't believe you. I can't believe you have the  _ gall  _ to come ask me for anything,” he said as he stood and poured his cold tea in the sink, stacked with dishes he hadn't washed. He saw Sylar cross his arms but ignored him as he poured another mug. 

 

After a thought, he poured a second one and handed it to Sylar, watching his eyes widen in surprise. 

 

He muttered thanks and wrapped long fingers around the mug, toying with a chip on the rim as he brought the tea to his face to inhale the steam. His jaw was thick with stubble. He looked rough, worn out. Worn down. 

 

Mohinder perched on the edge of the table, still not making eye contact. 

 

“I could probably hit the Goodwill and buy back some of my stuff,” Sylar said, “But there's someone else living in my apartment. I have literally nowhere to go.”

 

“That's what happens when you die,” Mohinder told his tea as he stared angrily down at it. He saw Sylar shrug out of the corner of his eye. “I went to your funeral. I celebrated your demise.” He looked up. Sylar's face was crestfallen. “I mourned you, as well,” he continued, softer. Sylar hid his face as he turned to the floor. 

 

Silence hung between them as Mohinder finished his tea. He rinsed the mug out and said quietly, “You can stay tonight. M- … there's an empty room across from the toilet in the hall. The shower is in my ensuite, you can use it if you need.”

 

“I'm fine.”

 

Mohinder nodded. “Blankets are in the hall closet. We'll talk tomorrow, I can't right now.” He avoided Sylar's eyes burning into him as he passed by, beelining to his bedroom at the end of the short hall. 

 

“Thank you,” came Sylar's words behind him. 

 

He stopped, hand gripping the doorjamb tight. “I don't want your thanks,” he growled as he closed the door between them. 

 

***

 

He woke up at his predawn alarm, shuffled through his morning routine and down the hall. He paused at Molly's room, unused for months but with the door shut over for the first time since he had sent her to the safety of his mother's house across the world. He held the door carefully to avoid the squeaky hinges and glanced in - Sylar was sprawled belly down on the floor under what had to be every single blanket Mohinder kept in the linen closet. Like the pea in the princess’ mattresses from a storybook he had read to Molly in the very room, he was only immediately noticeable because Mohinder knew he was there. 

 

Sylar's hand curled in the brightly colored throw rug and he snuffled into the pillow he had stolen from the couch so Mohinder turned away, closing the door over behind him. 

 

Ten minutes later, he locked Sylar in his apartment and left with a large thermos of tea and a feeling in his gut he was making a mistake. 

 

***

 

Mohinder climbed the last flight of stairs to his floor and sighed when he saw Sylar sitting on the pile of newspapers by his door. He had his face buried in one and hadn't noticed Mohinder yet, he could still turn around and leave. But he was exhausted from work and wanted a shower more than he wanted to avoid his unwanted house guest. 

 

Sylar looked up at his footsteps, pounding too hard in annoyance, and smiled. It fell from his face when Mohinder didn't return it. “Hey,” he said simply. 

 

Mohinder didn't acknowledge him as he unlocked the door and left it open behind him. 

 

His living room was cleaner than it had been in months. Books stacked neatly on and by the side table, take out containers gone, abandoned mugs cleared and he could swear the place had been dusted. 

 

He didn't even own a duster.

 

A quick glance toward the kitchen showed the dishes drying on the counter and the tabletop cleared of clutter. 

 

He threw his jacket and thermos on the table, making sure to take up as much room with his mess as he could, damnit. 

 

Sylar stood in the doorway, leaning casually, expression anything but. His mouth was pulled in a tight line and his eyes looked tired. “Can I come in?” he asked.

 

Mohinder shrugged. “If you don't have anywhere else to go,” he replied, unable to bite back hits cruel tone.

 

Sylar took a deep breath and shut the door behind him. He crossed his arms, mirroring Mohinder's antisocial posture. 

 

Mohinder sneered, “Did you find what you were looking for?”

 

“What?”

 

He gestured a wide radius around them. “Why'd you go through all my things?”

 

Sylar lowered his brows in a barely disguised glare. “I didn't. I woke up to an empty house and got bored. Doesn't look like  _ you _ take much time to clean.”

 

Mohinder scoffed, tightening his arms against his chest. “My time is none of your business.  _ Nothing _ of mine is any of your business.” Sylar remained silent so he continued, “I did not let you stay here so you can ruin my life again. I took  _ pity  _ on you,” he winced and shook his head, “My first mistake.”

 

“I think that's _ hardly  _ your first mistake.”

 

“Don't be a child.”

 

Sylar rolled his eyes. “Goes both ways, Mohinder.” 

 

“I just did you a favor.”

 

“And I just tried to thank you by helping out.”

 

“I don't need your thanks!” His day's exhaustion was catching up with him. 

 

With a sigh, Sylar fell into a chair and unrolled his arms on the table. He took up as much space as the things Mohinder had just strewn across it. “What do you need, then?” he asked, looking at his hands. 

 

Mohinder rubbed his temples. “I need a shower.”

 

Sylar nodded. “Have you eaten?”

 

Mohinder's stomach clenched. He had had too much tea and not enough bagel, but that was many hours ago. “I'm alright.” He had no food in the apartment, anyway.

 

Sylar stood and moved to the kitchen, opening cupboards Mohinder was sure he had snooped in already. Mohinder turned and started down the hall. Sylar called his name and he paused, not turning back enough to make eye contact. “We'll talk later, then?” he asked. Mohinder shrugged a shoulder and disappeared in his room. 

 

***

 

Mohinder didn't leave his bedroom until after he heard Sylar drop to the floor in Molly's room. His stomach growled and he had to find something.

 

The apartment smelled like garlic and his hunger twisted anew. A quick search of the fridge came up with a fresh container of noodles covered in a garlic butter sauce. He didn't remember buying noodles; they must have been left over from when Matt and Molly had lived with him. 

 

He thought of leaving it, going to find food on the late night New York streets but hunger won and he dug in to the leftovers in the dark kitchen. 

 

The noodles were sticky with cooling butter but he didn't want to heat them up. The sound of the microwave calling out his acceptance of Sylar's offering was too much like letting him win. 

 

No. He was just hungry. Sylar be damned. 

 

***

 

The pasta was annoyingly delicious. 

 

***

 

It was Sunday morning so he rolled over and fell back asleep three times before a gentle knock on his door drew him out of sleep’s tenuous grasp. 

 

“What?” Mohinder mumbled into his pillow. 

 

“Good morning,” Sylar called through the door. “I'm going out. Can I borrow a jacket?”

 

Mohinder signed and rolled over on his stomach. He thought of Sylar asleep on the floor while the soft mattress squeaked under him gently. “By the door,” he eventually answered. 

 

“Thank you.”

 

“Don't thank me,” came the automatic muffled retort. 

 

Sylar ignored him. “I'll be back soon. Don't change the locks while I'm gone.” His voice was light; it sounded like he was smiling. Mohinder frowned and heard the apartment door shut as he drifted off to sleep again. 

 

***

 

He was seriously getting tired of hearing knocking when Sylar's familiar knuckle rap sounded on the apartment door again. He was curled in his father's old armchair under the window, reading in the sunlight coming in through the bars of the fire escape. He didn't want to get up. “You open it,” he called out, knowing full well a deadbolt couldn't stop Sylar's entry. 

 

Sylar knew it, too. “I'd rather not resort to that,” he yelled just loud enough. 

 

Mohinder snuggled deeper into the cushions with a sigh. 

 

“Mohinder, please?” he tried again. “Your neighbor is staring me down. And it's pissing. Me. Off.” It sounded like he was facing away from the door. Mohinder could imagine him in the hall, carefully poised casualness slipping under the old lady’s glare. She was an odd number. 

 

He eventually took pity on him, again, and trudged to the door. Sylar was leaning on the doorjamb so he ended up looming over Mohinder as soon as the door opened. “Thank you,” his mouth curled in a half smile. 

 

“Don't.”

 

Behind Sylar's arm, Mohinder could see the neighbor leaning outside her door, watching them closely. She glared, rheumy eyes small on her wrinkled face. “Tell boyfriend stop skulking. Give key.”

 

Mohinder could feel a headache coming on, fast as a freight train. “Good morning to you too, ma'am. Not my ‘boyfriend’,” he accentuated the word like it burned his tongue. 

 

“I only wish,” Sylar teased coyly, whether to him or the neighbor, Mohinder couldn't tell. He rolled his eyes and stepped aside so Sylar could brush past him. His neighbor was muttering in indistinguishable Ukrainian as he shut the door. 

 

Sylar was hanging the borrowed coat back in the closet. “How was your morning, dear?” he asked. 

 

“What are you doing?” Mohinder snapped. Sylar looked at him and shook his head. Mohinder rubbed his temples, willing the pounding to settle. “I don't have the patience for games.”

 

“Sorry.” He didn't sound genuine. Mohinder ignored him and went back to his chair. 

 

Sylar remained by the door, looking into the kitchen and around slowly. Mohinder asked him what he wanted. 

 

Blinking, Sylar answered, “I'd literally kill for some coffee.”

 

Mohinder couldn't stop the laugh that fell from his mouth. He regained control when he saw Sylar's face light up. He pointed to the kitchen as he picked up his book again. “I think there's some in the cupboard over the stove. A coffee pot, too.” If Matt had left food, he might have left coffee also. 

 

Sylar checked and lo and behold, stale ground coffee. “Oh my god,” he breathed reverently as he plugged in the pot and watched it brew. 

 

Mohinder peeked over the pages of his book to see him tapping his foot impatiently, an empty mug in his waiting hand. 

 

The warm, dark smell of coffee followed him over as he perched on the windowsill next to Mohinder. They sat in almost comfortable silence, Sylar making Mohinder more tea when he refilled his own mug. 

 

Sylar's eyes were on his coffee as he broke the silence, “Are you ready to talk, now?”

 

Mohinder breathed deep and set down his book. Looking over, he couldn't discern Sylar's features with the late morning sun shining around him. “Why did you come here?”

 

“Because I have nowhere else to go,” Sylar repeated what he had said before. 

 

“Bullshit.”

 

Sylar looked up at him. “Because I'm lost, and alone, and you're the only one I trust to pound the shit out of my face, not shoot me in the back.”

 

Mohinder cracked his knuckles unconsciously. He could still feel the cartilage of Sylar's nose crack under his fist, his blood smear across his fingers. His stomach turned. “That's terrible.”

 

“The truth sometimes is,” he shrugged. 

 

Mohinder let that settle before he asked, “What do you expect to get from being here?”

 

“The joy of your company.” Sylar grinned, crooked and quick before his face fell as Mohinder remained unamused. He signed, “I don't exist anymore. Most of the people that knew me as Sylar think I'm dead, and Gabriel Grey is a wanted man. I don't have a home, I don't have money, I don't even have a change of goddamn underwear. Okay, I need just enough time to get some of those problems under control. I thought maybe … you and I?” he shrugged. 

 

Mohinder looked at him incredulously. “There is no ‘you and I’, Sylar.” 

 

Sylar set his half full coffee cup down next to his hip. “We could have been friends, once,” he said quietly.

 

Mohinder shook his head. He wanted to yell and scream and investigate a fight. He resisted, in no small part to the headache pressing behind his eyeballs. “You can stay,” he conceded quietly. “For a little while, find your feet.”

 

Sylar stared at him, face carefully blank. 

 

Mohinder continued, “The foreman on the construction site I work at is always looking for an extra set of hands for heavy lifting.”

 

Sylar squinted. “Wait, construction? You?”

 

“You're not the only one living under the wire. My name, my ... family name, is everywhere connected to human evolution, I can't do anything in my field without setting off alarms. I still have bills, and the job pays cash under the table, no employment records, no being turned in.”

 

“You'd do that for me?” Sylar asked. 

 

Mohinder ignored him. “It's hard work, it's all heavy lifting, easy for me, but can you handle it?”

 

Sylar scoffed and nodded to the kitchen table. Mohinder turned to see it hovering three feet from the ground. “Gee, this is so heavy, however will I manage?” Sylar mocked dryly.

 

“Can you do it without being a smartass?”

 

“Of course. If your scrawny ass can look like you belong in construction, I'll manage.”

 

Mohinder raised an eyebrow glancing down at Sylar's gangly limbs. “We'll see.” He stood and started to walk to his bedroom, see if hiding in the quiet dark would help his headache. “We leave at four .”

 

“Okay,” Sylar said behind him. “Wait, in the morning?” 

 

Mohinder smiled at the thin line of stress in his voice. 

 

***

 

He nudged the lump sleeping under too many comforters at the jolly hour of three, tossing his longest pair of jeans and a long sleeved tee on Sylar as he grumbled and rolled over. 

 

“Get moving. Wear these, you can't wear your clothes on site. You look like a damn clown.” Which may not have been totally true, but the white button up and too big slacks held up with suspenders he had shown up in were totally incongruous with the boogeyman Mohinder remembered. 

 

Sylar stretched. “Funny. I was actually living at a circus before I came here.” He yawned but made no move to leave the nest of blankets. 

 

“You're kidding me,” Mohinder crossed his arms. When Sylar just continued to lay there, eyebrow perked, he shook his head with a sigh, “You're ridiculous. You die,  _ then _ run away to join the circus.”

 

“I think I played president for a while between, memories are vague.” He put his hands behind his head, bare arms poking free. “It's been a hell of a year.”

 

Mohinder didn't know what to say to that. Instead, he asked, “Are you going to get up?”

 

Sylar's eyebrow crawled higher to his hair, soft and rumpled from sleep. “Are you going to leave? Kinda naked here, didn't know you wanted the full show."

 

Mohinder turned from the room as Sylar sat, all shoulders and pale skin as the blankets fell. “Just hurry up.” He closed the door behind him, going back to his room to search the closet for his pair of spare steel toes. 

 

***

 

The day passed quickly, Sylar barely crossing Mohinder's path. When he did, he acknowledged him with a nod and smiling eyes, keeping his face flat after seeing how rough the crew was. Mohinder had warned him as they hung to the aisle straps on the train across town that the crew was comprised of men in all sorts of hiding - ex convicts, immigrants, wanted men. A couple paranoid men checking over their shoulders every few minutes. 

 

“Sounds like I'll fit right in. What are you doing with them, then?” he had asked. 

 

Mohinder had looked at him a long time before answering, “You really don't know me at all.” He had turned to the window so he could pretend he didn't see Sylar study him the rest of the ride. 

 

***

 

It wasn't surprising that Sylar was a master at pretending. It was surprising how fast Mohinder could ignore him and fall into the lonely world of manual labor - just his muscles straining against heavy pipes and boards, his mind both empty and racing. When lunch came and the crew scattered for an hour, Mohinder walked around the corner to get his usual tea and bagel. 

 

He wasn't surprised when Sylar followed him. Sylar stepped in line next to him as they turned the corner from the construction site, stretching his shoulders. Arm crossed over his chest. Switch. Hands clasped behind his back, reach back, chest out, shoulder pops and he hissed. 

 

“Damn, is every day like this?” He threw his arms over his head and reached higher and higher until his back cracked loud. The wavering sigh that fell from his mouth was near orgasmic. Mohinder side eyed him, grunting confirmation. “So where are you going?” His hand stretched out toward Mohinder but he pulled it back immediately, like he hadn't meant for it to get away. 

 

Mohinder ignored the question, instead barking, “Why are you following me?”

 

Sylar looked at him like he was stupid. “Because we're on break.”

 

“Look.” Mohinder stopped in front of Sylar, hand pressed to his chest. The corners of Sylar's mouth turned up in a grin. “Just because I'm on break and you're on break doesn't mean  _ we  _ take it together. Okay?”

 

The smile doesn't fall from Sylar's face; instead, it was mirrored in his eyes. “You get cranky when you don't eat.” His eyes fell over Mohinder's face to the hand quickly snatched from his chest. “That's good to know,” he said quietly. 

 

“Leave me alone, Sylar.” Mohinder turned and walked away. 

 

Half a bagel later and around the block the long way, opposite of where he left Sylar in the middle of the sidewalk, Mohinder turned back to the deli with a sigh. He bought a second bagel and a coffee, and trudged back the way he came.

 

Sylar was leaning against a wall near where Mohinder had left him, fiddling with his watch. He didn't look up. Mohinder kicked at his boot, dusted with fine dirt, and thrust the paper coffee cup and bag of bagel at him when he looked up. 

 

“Hey. Thank you,” Sylar laughed, surprised. “I thought you'd left me.”

 

Mohinder shook his head. “Thought about it. Figured you wouldn't get far hungry.”

 

“Yeah, probably not,” he said, voice far away as he looked curiously at Mohinder. 

 

They walked back in silence and Mohinder was sure to avoid Sylar the rest of the day. 

 

***

 

They continued that way the rest of the week. Mohinder avoided Sylar at work and at home, trying to leave the house as much as he could. He gave Sylar a copy of the key so he wouldn't be locked into letting him in and out. Mohinder always came home to fresh leftovers in the fridge, hodgepodge meals scraped together with what was hidden in the cupboards. He only ate after Sylar had gone to bed, unwilling to acknowledge the kindness. 

 

He'd be more annoyed but Sylar was a surprisingly good cook. 

 

Sylar stayed out of his hair, too, after giving up on conversation when Mohinder was very obviously ignoring him. If they did cross paths, it was over the pages of whatever book Sylar had pulled from his shelf, a small smile and a nod of acknowledgement, a quiet sigh when he was brushed off. 

 

It didn't seem to matter what book he found, Sylar read his way around Mohinder's shelf. Genetics texts, science periodicals, mystery novels, the damn self help book on improving communication an ex had left passive aggressively on her way out the door. He read everything except his father's book. But Mohinder figured he'd already read that. 

 

Saturday evening, after taking the long way home and walking around two parks and picking up beer and pizza, he came home to Sylar bent over the kitchen table. He had dismantled something, a clock by the looks of the cogs and wheels spread out. He saw the face of his father's desk clock, an old heavy thing Mohinder remembered doubling as a paperweight on his father's desk for as long as he could remember. 

 

“What are you doing?” he snapped.

 

Sylar didn't look up. He had what was probably the heart of the damn machine in his hands, carefully inserting a spring. It snapped in place and he exhaled. Mohinder hadn't noticed he was holding his breath. “It's slow, I'm fixing it.”

 

Mohinder tossed the pizza box on the counter by the sink and stormed over. “You can't, that's my - you can't just tear things apart.”

 

Sylar finally looked up. His eyes looked too large behind the thick black frames of his glasses. “It'll be back together soon. It was slow,” he repeated. “I could hear it, it was annoying me.”

 

“You're annoying me,” Mohinder mumbled under his breath as he turned to the drawers for a bottle opener. He cracked two beers open, taking a long pull of one before turning back around. 

 

Sylar was staring at him, face hard and unreadable. He was never so closed off. A shiver edged along the base of Mohinder's neck but he didn't let it loose. He set the second bottle down in front of Sylar before pulling out a chair, swinging it to sit backwards. He couldn't help but think of ropes and pain and incapacitation with Sylar at his kitchen table. He didn't want to put his back against a wall. Not when Sylar looked as tense as the mainspring he had just placed. 

 

Sylar ignored the beer and the dismantled clock. He moved to speak but snapped his mouth shut in a scowl. After a thought, he huffed. “You're acting like you hate me.” 

 

Mohinder raised his eyebrows as he took a drink. 

 

“This is where I was hoping you'd say something like, ‘hate is a strong word’ or something. Tell me I'm wrong.”

 

“No, you're pretty much right on the money.”

 

Sylar's face fell, no longer expressionless. 

 

“Did you really expect anything different?”

 

Sylar leaned back in the chair with a sigh. “I had hoped.” He took a long drink from his beer and looked blankly across the room. 

 

Mohinder picked at a hangnail. “Why, because you want to be  _ friends _ ?”

 

Quiet hung between them for a lingering moment. “If that's all I get, yes,” Sylar answered quietly. 

 

“What do you mean?”

 

Sylar shook his head and poked at the clockwork in front of him. Mohinder watched the pieces shift across the table, worried something would roll away. “That was my father's,” he said, voice barely over a whisper. He never spoke of his father, his loss burnt a hole through him when he did. “I didn't think seeing it torn apart would piss me off, but. I don't know.”

 

“I'm sorry. I didn't know.”

 

“Don't apologize. You didn't know.” He shrugged. 

 

They ran out of things to say so they drank in silence. 

 

Sylar cleared his throat and gestured to the work spread out in front of him with the bottle hanging loose in his hand. “So I'll, uh, put this back together now.”

 

“You better.” Mohinder winced as the words left his mouth. “There's pizza. When you're done."

 

Sylar looked up from his delicate work, glasses low on his nose. “I know. I can smell it. I wasn't hungry before you brought it in,” he teased. 

 

Mohinder shrugged. “I didn't know what you like, I got cheese.”

 

“Cheese is always good.” His eyes were soft again, and so dark. 

 

Mohinder looked away. 

 

He watched Sylar's long fingers fiddle with strange tools. “Where'd you get those?”

 

“I ran some errands after work. I figured you wouldn't be home right away.” His eyebrow was perched high over the rim of his glasses, looking pointedly at Mohinder before turning back to his work. “My shop is closed down, but still there.”

 

“You own… a repair shop?”

 

“Yeah. Did. By default, I guess it was mine. Haven't been there in a long time. No one has bought the property or moved my things out. I just … reacquired some things.”

 

“You broke in?”

 

Sylar shrugged. “To a place I have they keys for. I guess so.”

 

Mohinder blinked. “Can I watch?”

 

Sylar smiled and furrowed his brows, not looking up. “Me breaking and entering?”

 

“You fixing my father's clock.”

 

He looked up. “Yes. Do you -" but Mohinder was already drawing his chair over to sit close enough the wooden back hit Sylar's arm. Sylar looked at him, a breath away, and held his. 

 

Mohinder gestured impatiently for him to get fixing and Sylar did with a laugh. 

 

“See this is what was making it run slow,” he smiled. Mohinder leaned on his crossed arms and watched with rapt attention. 

 

***

 

Questions and stilted conversation peppered the repair job and continued as they settled in to cold pizza and a second round. They both tried to avoid talking about their childhoods and their more recent entangled history. 

 

It didn't leave a whole lot to talk about. But when the room fell quiet again, it was more comfortable than tense. It was good. Mohinder felt less stressed in his own apartment than he had in weeks. Even before Sylar had crossed back into his life, he had felt nervous pressure in the air around him. 

 

With the social climate darkening around evolved humans, he felt there had to be strength in numbers. And as Sylar had so eloquently spoken, the person now closest to him was the only one who could go after him directly, not try to take him down behind his back. 

 

It shouldn't have been as comforting as it was. 

 

“So how's the floor?” he asked as Sylar swallowed  the last of his beer. He cocked his head, confused. “In - in Molly's room?” Mohinder clarified. 

 

Sylar shrugged a lazy shoulder and leaned back. “I can't complain. It's a floor. It feels like a floor. Especially since I'm so damn sore every day, trying to keep up with you on the manual labor front.” He slid the empty bottle between his hands idly. “Not every one of us is an ox, you know.”

 

Mohinder ignored him and grabbed the last beers from the fridge. He was down to a few sad condiment jars and leftovers from the previous night; he should really go grocery shopping someday. “You can have the couch,” he offered, handing a bottle and opener to Sylar. “You don't have to sleep on the floor.”

 

Sylar wrapped his hand around Mohinder's, pulling him close and opening the beer he was holding. He opened his own and grinned. “Thank you.”

 

“Don't. Just don't drool on my furniture.”

 

He rose from the chair, slow as molasses, and cocked a finger at Mohinder. “No promises,” he said, still smiling, and turned from the room. He flopped down on the couch, limbs loose, and patted the seat next to him. “Wanna try out my new bed with me?” He winked. 

 

It took a moment for Mohinder to answer. “No. I know what my couch feels like.” Soft with a divot in the middle; he wouldn't have been surprised if the furniture had been there when his father had moved in. He has never been overly concerned with creature comforts. The basics to support living as he worked and studied and ignored his only living child was all he ever needed. 

 

Sylar hummed and nestled in to the cushion just to the left of the divot. “Missing out,” he mumbled, but Mohinder couldn't be sure who he meant was doing the missing.

 

***

 

He woke up late the next morning as he heard the front door close and lock. Shuffling from the bedroom, he saw Sylar hanging a borrowed coat back in the closet. He had bought some clothes on payday and was dressed all in black again. Mohinder had found his displeasure at wearing blue jeans and light colored shirts amusing while it lasted. 

 

“Good morning,” Sylar said, smiling as he brushed past Mohinder standing bleary eyed at the edge of the kitchen. “I'll make you some tea.” He put the kettle on before starting his own coffee. 

 

Mohinder perched against the table, crossing his arms against the chill in the air. “Where did you go?”

 

Sylar shrugged, getting two mugs from the cupboard. “Church.” He avoided eye contact as he unwrapped a tea bag. 

 

“Didn't know you were religious,” Mohinder yawned. 

“I'm not. I used to go, it's familiar. I appreciate the structure. All the sitting, standing, kneeling, what to say and sing.” 

 

“Really?”

 

“Mmhmm. You can go with me next week, if you like.” He finally looked up from pulling the whistling kettle from the stove. 

 

“I'm good.”

 

“Okay, but don't be jealous when I get buns of steel,” he smiled at Mohinder's confused face as he handed him his chai. “All the Catholic calisthenics.” He winked, fingers trailing over Mohinder's. He looked down before turning to the percolating pot on the counter. “What are you up to today?”

 

“I don't know,” Mohinder answered. 

 

Sylar mirrored his lean against the counter. “I'm going grocery shopping. Any requests?”

 

“You're supposed to be saving money. Get your own place again.”

 

Sylar sighed. “Yes, mom, I'm saving money. We have to eat though, and that doesn't seem to be your priority.”

 

“I'm fine feeding myself.”

 

Sylar laughed. “You're fine trying to sneak leftovers in the dark. I'll cook, I like to.”

 

“Whatever. I'm leaving.” He left Sylar standing dumbstruck in the kitchen. 

 

***

 

A cool breeze and silence met Mohinder as he shut the front door behind him. The living room window was open, curtains rustling enough to see Sylar sitting on the fire escape. 

 

As Mohinder walked closer, he saw Sylar's hand glowing pale orange. The light left his fingertips and formed a small ball over his cupped hands.

 

“What is that?” Mohinder snapped as he stood in the window. 

 

Sylar jumped, the light extinguished as fast as a teenager caught with a cigarette. He looked surprised. Mohinder tried to find guilt in his face, too. 

 

“Is that new?” If Sylar was using him as a home base while he went out killing again, Mohinder would end him. He would tear him limb from limb until he found his Achilles tendon and killed him for good. 

 

“No,” Sylar shook his head. “It's from the exploding man. One of the first powers I … took.” His face scrunched in distaste. 

 

“I thought you lost them. You  _ did _ lose them.”

 

“I thought so. But it's been bugging me, why I can use telekinesis. So I thought …” he trailed off, looking away and over the street below. “I thought I'd try.”

 

Mohinder didn't trust him. “So you just tried to use one and it worked? Just like that?”

 

Sylar tucked his knees under his chin. “No. I've tried before, so many times. I tried to force them. I realized that isn't how I use telekinesis. I just  _ do  _ it, I don't try, it's just, I don't know, part of me, I guess. So I treated other powers like that and violà.” He snapped his fingers and they glowed dimly. Mohinder reached out and Sylar pulled back fast, fingers solid flesh again. “What are you doing? That's radiation, don't be stupid.”

 

Mohinder crossed his arms. “You're the one out here playing with fire, Sylar. How's that not stupid? Who could see you up here?”

 

Sylar tilted his head, dark eyes hooded. “Are you worried about me?”

 

“I'm worried about someone calling the police on you. I heard there's a new task force to handle people with powers. I don't want to find out while they're tearing down my apartment to find you.”

 

Shaking his head, Sylar said, “No, that's not new. I was one of them.”

 

Mohinder ducked out the window onto the fire escape. Sylar scooted over to give him room on his stair but Mohinder ignored him and sat on the windowsill. “Not a private company - the United States government.”

 

“I'm sure there's a connection. Somewhere down the shell company line.”

 

“Maybe.”

 

They sat quietly watching dusk settle until Sylar mused, “I wonder if they're hiring.”

 

Mohinder laughed. “I  _ don't  _ think so,” he said, ignoring Sylar's smile. 

 

“Why not? It's my skill set, I have experience.”

 

“I don't think hiring public enemy number one is on the government's priority list.”

 

Sylar looked concerned, maybe for the first time Mohinder could remember. “Do you really think I'm number one?”

 

“I think it's a higher possibility each day with the way the world is.”

 

Sylar tapped his toes. “Aww. You're worried about me.”

 

Mohinder signed. “Can't you just … practice a less ostentatious power?”

 

Sylar's eyes sparkled with mirth. “I do have a few to choose from, don't I.” He stood and leaned over the railing. He crossed his arms and looked at the foot traffic below. He pointed at someone - a teenager in a hoodie and headphones, Mohinder saw when he stood to see. Sylar closed his eyes and rested his head on his crossed arms. “That kid is listening to …” he hummed a bar of music and grinned. “The Smiths. Good choice,” he continued to hum quietly, a slow melancholy tune Mohinder didn't know. Pointing across the street at another apartment building, he told Mohinder which rooms had people watching television, which one had people fighting, which one had someone singing (“very off key, might I add,” he pointed out), and he winked as he pointed toward the top floor where he said two people were fucking. “And your neighbor has a pet. A rodent. I can hear it digging.”

 

Mohinder looked blankly at him a moment. “You could be making all that up.”

 

Sylar turned around and leaned his elbows on the rail. He smiled at Mohinder standing beside him. “Do you think I am?”

 

“Yes.”

 

Sylar laughed, clear and bright. “You know, I can tell when you lie. It's something rather new I picked up.”

 

Mohinder signed. “Well, that's great.”

 

Sylar pushed off the rail with grace and brushed past Mohinder. “Liar,” he said quietly, words rumbling against Mohinder's ear. He ducked back in the apartment, leaving Mohinder outside in the cooling air, a shiver running down his spine. 

 

***

 

Sylar shoved a plastic shopping bag, handles tied tight in a prim bow, at him as they rushed out the door in the morning. “I made you lunch.”

 

Mohinder held his hand up, warding it off. “I'm alright, I don't want it.”

 

“I want you to eat. You're an asshole when you're hungry and a damn bagel isn't lunch. Just take it.”

 

“No, I'm fine without.”

 

“Mohinder, damnit, humor me. I made you tea, too,” he handed him a thermos and the bag, turning to leave before Mohinder got a good grip on either. He scrambled to hold them and followed out with a sigh. 

 

He walked behind Sylar, slowly to put some distance between them, but caught up as Sylar waited at a crosswalk. He ignored his sly smile as they walked together. He ignored him crowding against him on the subway, as well. 

 

All day he ignored him until lunch came and his stomach didn't so much rumble as roar. He begrudgingly grabbed the lunch bag, careful to rustle the neatly tucked corners, and sat at the popup picnic table the crew used for breaks under the shade of a tall earth mover. 

 

He ripped the bag, ignoring the easy slipknot holding the bow in place and looked down in distaste at the salad and pasta tucked inside. The pasta had almost as much produce as the salad. 

 

It looked fucking delicious. 

 

Another worker joined him in the shade, wiping sweat from his brow. He was a friendly older man the crew just called Tio. His thick knuckles were tattooed with  _ fire  _ and  _ pain,  _ worn pale through time and hard labor. 

 

“Ahh, finally have a little woman at home, sí?” Tio asked, voice deep and jovial behind his thick accent. 

 

“Excuse me?” Mohinder asked. 

 

Tio pointed to his unpacked lunch. “Never eat. Today, you have food.  _ You _ did not cook.”

 

“No,” he shook his head, fishing a fork from the bag and setting it on the salad container as he made a face. 

 

Tio laughed. “I know, you no cook,  _ no.” _

 

“No, I- no, no … woman.” It wasn't the man's business, but Mohinder bristled at the implication. The crew hardly spoke beyond heckling and joking, surface interactions to make them feel like they were normal. Tio was the only one to pry, but in a nice, friendly way. In an uncle way. He was always pleasant and Mohinder didn't want to brush him off. 

 

“No, mi amigo, someone makes you food so nice, you have them. You keep.” He smacked the table with his open palm. “Not fuck up, sí?”

 

Mohinder didn't answer, just poked the plastic containers around in the torn bag.

 

“See, amigo, mi mujer, mi wife, every day for forty three years, she makes the same thing on days. On Fridays, bien. On Mondays … there are too many Mondays every month.” He pulled the face that time and Mohinder couldn't help but laugh. 

 

“Would you like to trade?”

 

Tio blinked at him. “We trade, not trade back.”

 

Happy to be free of Sylar's offering, he shoved the bag over and nodded. “We will not trade back.”

 

Tio opened the pasta; it smelled wonderful. Mohinder couldn't stop his mouth from watering. Tio passed a brown sack lunch over and dug in to the pasta, his eyes closed. He swallowed and said, “Your woman, bobo,” he curled his fingers in an ‘OK’ sign, “Muy bien.”

 

Mohinder opened his new lunch and it was not at all bien. It was a smear of jarred pimento cheese between thick bread, carrot sticks and graham crackers. He poked at it reluctantly, watching Tio finish and leave. He made a face and started in on the sandwich as his stomach growled. 

 

“What's for lunch?”

 

He looked up at Sylar, standing across the table with a curious look. Mohinder half heartedly waved the sandwich at him, suddenly feeling like an asshole. 

 

“You should have told me that's what you like, I would have made it.” His voice was soft, drifting. 

 

“Oh, I don't like it,” Mohinder said as he took another bite. Sylar nodded and walked away. 

 

***

 

He didn't see Sylar for two days. He knew he had been to the apartment - dinner was made every night, the shower was wet before Mohinder used it. But the only other signs that he had been there at all were the neatly folded blankets on the arm of the couch and the lingering smell of coffee. 

 

Mohinder was pouring a glass of water in the kitchen, barefoot and shirtless and fresh from the shower, when the door opened. He jumped but it was only Sylar, shaking residual raindrops from his borrowed coat as he shut the door with his foot. 

 

If the rain kept up, work would be called off temporarily. They were laying the foundation of a house in a new development and couldn't work in the rain, the cement would be bad. 

 

Sylar saw him standing in the kitchen, eyes sliding down his body. “Hey,” he said. 

 

Mohinder crossed his arms over his chest; Sylar tore his eyes away. 

 

“I was just about to start dinner.”

 

“I'll help you.” Sylar blinked at him. “Just give me a moment,” he said, returning quickly as he pulled a shirt over his head. “What are we making?”

 

Sylar pulled a bag of potatoes from the cupboard Mohinder stored his meager pot and pan collection. Getting a knife and cutting board, he answered, “Breakfast. Since we're actually eating together for once, yeah?”

 

Mohinder nodded and took the potatoes to the sink. He was washing them when a gentle hand on his hip startled him. 

 

Sylar smiled next to him. “Mohinder. How do you take your eggs?”

 

***

 

A sharp pain in his side slowly had Mohinder awake. He stretched his neck, sore from sleeping upright, and almost hit skulls with Sylar, tucked in his armpit and breathing deep. His arm was slung possessively across his hips, leg a long length of warmth against his own.

 

The sound of rain rang steady against the window. It nearly drowned out the pleased sigh on Sylar's lips as Mohinder grabbed him by the arm and shoved him away.

 

“Sylar,” he croaked with a sleep rough voice. “Your bony ass shoulder.”

 

Sylar just tightened the arm around his hip and buried his face in Mohinder's shirt. Mohinder shoved harder with more success. Sylar flopped back on the back of the couch and blinked. “Mmm. G’mornin’ M’hnder.”

 

“Not morning. No work today, go back to sleep.” He stood on slow legs and stretched. 

 

Sylar reached out to trace the bare skin where his shirt raised after his arms. “Come back,” he pled, fingers curling in the waistband of his slacks. Sylar breathed his name and licked his lips, heavy eyes looking up at him. 

 

“Sylar.” He pried at his fingers but Sylar pulled him closer. 

 

“I love when you say my name,” he whispered. “Say it again.”

 

“Go to sleep,” Mohinder repeated, pulling free. Sylar's arms fell like lumber and he slid down the couch. Mohinder threw the blanket over him and shuffled to his own bed as his breath evened out. 

 

***

 

He was awake at the kitchen table with the newspaper and a mug of tea when Sylar rose from the couch. His bare limbs were long and lean, his smile crooked and shy as he picked his pants off the ground and disappeared in the bathroom. 

 

Dressed, he made coffee and sat across from Mohinder. He asked for the classifieds. 

 

“Do you have the money to move?” Mohinder asked as he passed them over. 

 

“Yes. Yes, I should.” He shook the paper between his hands but didn't open it yet. “I want to thank you for helping me.” For once, Mohinder didn't say anything. “I'm  _ going _ to thank you - for everything.”

 

Mohinder looked over the table at him, eyebrows screwed in confusion. “Okay?”

 

Sylar nodded and sighed before he heaved himself from the table, leaning heavily on his hands. “Really? Okay,” he echoed before he walked slowly around to stand before Mohinder's chair. He nodded his head up, indicating Mohinder should stand. 

 

Mohinder stood. 

 

Sylar looked at him silently, eyes flashing between his own, over his cheekbones and unruly hair, down his long neck and back again. Mohinder shifted his weight between his feet, trying to reshuffle his nerves. 

 

“Tell me to stop,” Sylar finally muttered, eyes slipping down and breath catching. Mohinder saw his hands twitch at his sides. “Tell me how wrong I am.”

 

He slid bonelessly to his knees; his eyes rolled up to keep on Mohinder's lips, parted with a thought dead before vocalization. 

 

“Tell me it's wrong to want you,” Sylar signed. His eyelashes fluttered, nervous under brows perched high with question. He raised his hands to trace the air over Mohinder's thighs, fingers curling back into his palms as he bit his lip and swayed forward. “Tell me how wrong I am,” he pled. 

 

Mohinder found his breath with a gasp but couldn't force words. Sylar took silence as permission and allowed his hands to graze down Mohinder's legs. His nails dragged as he hooked a grip on his slacks over his knees. His breath shook, crystal clear in the silence. 

 

He closed his eyes and swayed, loose and uncontrolled. Mohinder fought to regain a sense of calm without dark eyes tearing into him. 

 

He let loose a single breathless laugh as Sylar's rocking ceased and he regained eye contact from his completely contrived position a hair from Mohinder's fly. He hadn't lost control; he was so very careful to never lose control anymore. 

 

His breath was distractingly hot fanning across Mohinder's hips. 

 

If he only stuck out his tongue, Mohinder could feel how hot that was, too. 

 

He shook at the thought, eyes crossing as he blinked slow. 

 

Sylar looked as if he  _ was _ going to press his tongue to the cloth straining over Mohinder's growing erection but he teased it around the inside of his open mouth instead. His eyes sparked with mirth not shared by his mouth: “Tell me not to dream about you.”

 

Mohinder's heart skipped at the words - their tempting insinuation, their heartbroken intonation, their lustful evocation.

 

“Sylar,” Mohinder moaned as he tilted his head back. 

 

“Yes,” Sylar answered as his fingers crept back up the tense length of Mohinder's thighs. “Again.”

 

Mohinder's voice cracked, syllables breaking in his tight throat. “Sylar.” He felt fingers carefully working the button of his slacks loose. “Sylar. Please.”

 

Sylar's eyes were wide dark pools of lust when he met them with his own. Contact made, Sylar dropped his eyes to his hand’s task. His hands trembled. 

 

“Sylar,” Mohinder whispered, aching to run his hands through his hair. To feel that it was actually happening. To feel the truth of Sylar's desires turned actions. 

 

Sylar's hand was gentle on his fly, careful not to yet touch the engorged flesh beneath. Slowly unzipping, he looked up, lip caught between his teeth, air caught up in the electric current between them. 

 

Mohinder caved and stroked his hand in the short hair slicked back behind Sylar's ear. Sylar leaned into the touch, needy and greedy for more. 

 

Mohinder indulged him, holding the base of his skull in his palm and scratching through his hair. 

 

Sylar's hand slipped, he yanked the zipper all the way down and lost his grip on the tab. His fingers stuttered over sensitive testes and Mohinder gasped. 

 

Sitting back with a look akin to shock across his face, Sylar licked his lips and said quietly, “Tell me to stop.” His eyes begged. “Or I'll never be able to.”

 

Mohinder couldn't. He gripped Sylar's hair tighter and felt his heart race as Sylar's eyes slid far away and he leaned his head heavier against his hand. 

 

Sylar's attention snapped back and he curled his fingers around the band of Mohinder's briefs. Both men held their breath as Sylar pulled them down, pushing his slacks low and out of the way. 

 

His cock, curled uncomfortably across his hipbone, sprang free. Sylar gasped, “Oh god, Mohinder. Oh my god.” His voice was low and thick, like his tongue was suddenly too big. He gave a final tug to Mohinder's pants and hooked his briefs behind his balls. 

 

The hot pants of breath against his skin had Mohinder struggling to not thrust forward. His hips jerked in tiny stilted movements anyway as Sylar's eyes jumped between his face and his cock. 

 

His knees weakened as Sylar's fingers tickled a delicate touch up his legs. “You better sit,” Sylar ordered, words ghosting along his length. He heard the kitchen chair behind him squeal across the floor as Sylar telekinetically moved it to catch him as his legs failed. 

 

Sylar grabbed behind his knees and tugged him to the edge of the seat, legs spread wide. His hand was still shaking as he grazed it up Mohinder's side, pushing his shirt up and out of the way. 

 

Goosebumps rose along his skin in Sylar's hand’s wake. 

 

“Stop me,” Sylar whispered, lips almost brushing his cock. He brushed nervous palms over his own legs. 

 

Mohinder twitched, pulling him by his hair, the last inch of air between them gone as lips grazed the side of him.

 

Sylar moaned against soft dry skin, sinking to sit on his calves and letting his eyes wander. Up over his face, down his chest, his open thighs, his hands knitted in loose fists dangling at his sides;eyes always wandering back over his hips, hard bare cock, dark hair edging toward wild since Mohinder hadn't been expecting to entertain anyone down there. 

 

Open mouthed and wide eyed, Sylar gasped a plea, “Can I touch you?”

 

Mohinder wanted to tell him he already had. He simply opened his legs in a wider invitation, an invitation grasped quickly with two gentle hands enveloping his cock. 

 

He leaned back, eyes hooded but watching, and sighed in defeat. 

 

Sylar knelt up, long and tall, breath catching as he sighed in lust. 

 

He pulled Mohinder's foreskin back and grazed his thumb through the pearl of precome threatening to drip free. 

 

Mohinder's head rolled back and he felt Sylar's hand curl up his neck, smearing sticky come over his Adam's apple. 

 

“Ooh,” escaped Sylar's lips unbidden. 

 

“Please,” rumbled up his hand as the plea tore free from Mohinder's throat. 

 

Sylar's hand remained resting at the curve of Mohinder's neck as he stroked his length with the other. A small twist of his hand gave the knee quaking double stimulation of his foreskin rolling under fingers and he cried out as he shook. 

 

Sylar rested his head against his quivering stomach, eyes fast on his ministrations. Mohinder couldn't see but he could feel his tongue lave a timid stripe along the base of his cock. 

 

He wound his hands together at the base of Sylar's neck, holding him as he grew more confident, moaning loud and needy as he mouthed down the cock growing even harder under hand and mouth. 

 

He sucked at the loose skin pulling taught at Mohinder's tip, tonguing it as he released. 

 

“Sylar,” Mohinder said, half begging and half warning. 

 

Sylar flashed him a feral grin before wrapping wicked lips around his cock. He sunk down on it, hands white knuckle gripping flank and thigh, locking their bodies in place. Mohinder pulled his hair, pulling him back, but it was a struggle he lost against a careful flick of eager tongue. 

 

Mohinder couldn't breathe. 

 

Sylar panted hot against his skin, resting Mohinder's dick heavy on his tongue as he caught his breath. He allowed Mohinder to pull him back, but just far enough to swirl his tongue over the head. He engulfed him again, mouth too wet, too hot, too amateur to take more than half the cock straining out for him. 

 

He wound his long fingers around the rest, teasing them up over Mohinder's body, rustling through pubes and over his soft lower belly before twisting again over his cock. 

 

Mohinder tilted his head to the ceiling but was pulled back by Sylar's hand grabbing at his neck. Sylar's eyes were dark as he stared him down, denying him to look away, defying him to disassociate. 

 

He cupped Sylar's cheek, stubble rasping against his palm as he sped his efforts to suck Mohinder to completion. He stuck a finger in his mouth alongside Mohinder's cock, dragging it out and down the underside to trace wetly down his balls, pulled tight with desperation. He cupped them, rolling them in his hand, letting his fingertips tease along his thighs and perineum. 

 

It was too much. He felt a rush of electricity jolt down his spine and he slumped in the chair, thrusting deeper in Sylar's mouth. 

 

Sylar gasped around him, moving his hand from throat to hips to still further movement. He hummed and Mohinder felt it reverberate to his brain. 

 

His hands tightened in Sylar's hair, holding him close as his body tingled again. He watched his cock, dark and hard, disappear between Sylar's swollen lips and pale fingers. He saw actual sparks and tiny jolts of white hot lightning dance over those fingers, felt the painless zap of them, and the hair on the back of his neck stood up as he came. 

 

Sylar moaned deep and guttural as come pooled on his tongue, swallowing as he pulled off Mohinder's still twitching dick. His fingers continued to stroke and sooth his wet flesh, quickly becoming too much after the stimulation. 

 

Sylar mouthed his name but couldn't make a sound. Mohinder watched him, boneless from where he had collapsed in the chair. Sylar's eyes were wild as he licked his lips, one hand falling to rest over his own clothed cock; Mohinder could see the fine muscles of his arms contract as he palmed himself. He tugged at Sylar's hair, fierce grip crinkling the gel’s hold as he pulled him up. 

 

Sylar winced and stood, legs slow to move after being folded so long. 

 

Mohinder forced him to stand, eyes falling down his body. Sylar shifted under the attention, one hand tugging at his shirt, the other pressed to the erection straining against his jeans. 

 

Mohinder licked his dry lips and Sylar sighed, thumbing the top button of his jeans open. Mohinder nodded to egg him on, watching the rest of the button fly come undone with fingers and powers. He looked up into Sylar's eyes, irises almost completely lost to lust. Sylar bit down on his lip with one sharp canine as he drew out his cock with a long, wavering sigh. 

 

Mohinder scooted low in the chair, hooking his knees between Sylar's and pulling his legs wide. Sylar fell, catching himself against Mohinder's chest as he settled into his lap. 

 

He fisted Mohinder's shirt and stroked his cock hard, tilting up into his hand. Mohinder watched, mouth dry. Sylar's breath stopped as his hand sped up. He rested his forehead against Mohinder's, running his tongue over his teeth nervously. Their mouths were just inches apart. 

 

Mohinder's hands were restless; he saw Sylar's eyes go to them as they twitched at his sides. Mohinder grabbed the hem of his shirt and leaned back to pull it over his head. 

 

Sylar gasped, free hand quick to stroke up Mohinder's bare skin. His thumb brushed over a nipple and he smiled as Mohinder squirmed.

 

He grazed up Mohinder's neck again, tilting his head back as his thumb brushed over his thick bottom lip. Mohinder caught it between his teeth and Sylar wrapped his palm around his cheek, holding his eyes as he started to lose control. 

 

Tilting his hips up, he grazed the head of his cock against Mohinder's stomach and gave two more sharp twisting strokes before he came, over his hand and against Mohinder's smooth skin. 

 

He closed his eyes, turning into Mohinder's hair to catch his breath. He dragged his thumb from Mohinder's mouth, dragging over his lip and jaw, turning him so they were face to face. He stroked along his cheekbone, dipping in for a kiss. 

 

Mohinder turned away at the last minute. Sylar paused, lips trembling against his jaw, before he gently kissed down the tense line of his neck instead. 

 

“Stop,” Mohinder whispered. Sylar hummed against his skin, brain numb from orgasm. “It's wrong,” Mohinder continued. 

 

He felt Sylar pause and pull back slightly. “What?” he asked, voice wavering. 

 

“It is so wrong of you to want me.” 

 

Sylar's hand tightened against his cheek and he sat back, face lost as he searched Mohinder's eyes. 

“We have too much past, too much hurting each other, too much hatred. You can't want me.” He looked Sylar dead in the eye. “I shot you. I took your life. You took everything from mine. It is sick for you to want me.”

 

“Mohinder. No.” His voice was small, his eyes wide in shock. 

 

“You need to not dream about me. You need to stop.” Sylar's hand fell from his face and he rested it over his heart. It was beating steady and strong compared to Sylar's own frightened flutter. “Sylar, please.”

 

“Mohinder … but. You let me …”

 

“Blow me? You're really good.” He leaned back in the chair. “How many guys have you sucked thinking of me?”

 

Sylar's face was turning red, from embarrassment or anger, Mohinder could only guess. Probably both. He looked away. 

 

Mohinder turned his face back with fingers much more gentle than his words. “Whatever delusions you've been holding, there is no you and I. You ruined any chance of that before we even met.” His grip tightened around Sylar's chin. “You may  _ not _ touch me. You will leave, and you will leave me  _ alone. _ ” 

 

Sylar's hand flew from his chest; he held it out in surrender. He looked wretched. He rose on weak legs from Mohinder's lap. “When did you get so cruel?”

 

Mohinder blinked. “About the time my father was murdered. About the time I adopted a child whose parents were also murdered. About the time I lost my humanity, my faith in others’. About the time I beat someone to death with my hands. About the time I thought I was going to help save people and I fed them to a killer instead.”

 

Sylar turned away, righting his clothes. His jaw was hard but his eyes shone with pain. 

 

Mohinder slouched, finding power in the wide spread of his legs, in his cock softening with the pull of Sylar's saliva drying on it. 

 

He found power in the way Sylar couldn't look at him directly. 

 

“You can leave now,” he said. “I don't want to see you ever again.”

 

Sylar shifted toward the door but stopped. He turned to Mohinder, eyes shining. “You know the flip side of knowing when you lie? Knowing when you don't.” He left leaving nothing but his cracked voice ringing between Mohinder's ears. 


End file.
